Home for the Holidays
by Gil-dae
Summary: Heero reflects on Christmas time...as he looks about his empty apartment...


The holidays. Don't they just CALL for a sap fic to be written, confession of love as a present? That doesn't suit you? So then, a fluff fic, with many...odd...presents exchanged in the process, but always with cheer. Little sweet presents for the readers.

Well, I say, "Merry Christmas! Here's a deathfic!"

It's 1x2. Heero's POV, and he is talking throughout the story to Duo. It's a one-shot. And I did say this was a deathfic, right?

Hope you enjoy!

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Home for the Holidays

I've been sitting here the past four hours. In the background, Christmas tunes play, a sad testament to the consumerist cheer and goodwill brought about by the times. Songs of love, warm fires, towering trees adorned with glittering ornaments, all wasted on my indifferent ears. How could I not be, looking around my apartment? There is no fireplace here, not even a heater, and I have no tree. Another dreary eve of Christmas is approaching and leaving, with only worn out tapes as a signal to the times. It could be any other day in this apartment, if there wasn't the constant sound of shoppers shouting from across the streets, attempting to get to malls in the fastest of times. I suppose they have someone to shop for, something to waste their precious money on. What do I have? What could I buy for? I have a box of pictures; I have a necklace, tucked away in an old wooden box with your motto inscribed on it. I have memories, and even those are beginning to fray around the edges, worn out from their use.

It is times like these they are used the most. On any given day I no longer spend every waking moment thinking about you, what you would do, what you could have done, what would have become of us. But on the holidays, and especially Christmas, those memories are all the more painful. People say the holidays bring back parts of their childhood, beautiful thoughts inspired by the sight of snow coating the ground, of the holly and trees and little toys, of Santa. I think it was not until I was fifteen I even celebrated my first Christmas, and that was not really a celebration. It was...it was the very end of the war, after Oz was gone and Marimeya was a threat to us. You said that Christmas was a load of shit, all too much of a big deal over it, but when you went out and bought a little tree and set it in Deathscythe's cockpit, I couldn't help but wonder if you meant that. Yes, that was my first Christmas celebration, with you there. My first and my last. I can never bring myself to set up a tree, or anything like that, only listen to the songs, the tape you said you stole from a shop down the street from your orphanage as a child. You loved to sing them. We sat together, huddled next to the other for warmth, and let those tapes play over and over until both of us were sick of the sound but so addicted we could not turn it off.

Do you remember? Do you even care?

It's been three years now, and every Christmas has been hell. Maybe because I have no one to share it with who understands me, no one who can laugh anymore about the stupidity of our joy at the sight of holiday decorations, the sounds and smells? We cried bullshit to the winds and laughed as we exchanged gifts. You...you wore that silly bow at the end of your braid, the red and green one with bells on the ends. Every time you moved you jingled, just like a little cat. You gave me a bow too, tied it around my neck, and put that stupid hat on my head. Were we drunk then, I wonder? Or was it enough for us to have this one peaceful moment alone that we too all the chance we could to be ourselves?

Then you gave me a gift. It was that necklace, the cross you always wore. As if in foreshadowing for what was to come. You slipped it around my neck and told me always to keep it close, so that you would never be away from me, no matter how many miles came between us after the war. That cross had been with you since your childhood, and I knew what a weight it was for you to part with it, but you laughed and shook your head, not accepting it. It was mine now, you insisted, a legacy to pass on. At that point I felt like a fool, though. I had nothing to give you. I dug around in my pockets, but all I could find was a scrap of paper with a poem on it. I handed it to you without reading the words. You let out a burst of laughter and threw yourself at me, so happy to have it. And well, the second half of both of our Christmas presents followed. We made love as if we would not see each other past that day, like once this war was over we would no longer be lovers, going our own ways.

The cross I still have, but I cannot bring myself to wear it ever again. The poem, it was buried with you.

How could I not have seen why you were so happy then? I berate myself every year for this. How did I not notice how soft your voice was, or how frail you appeared, the whiteness in your skin even more then before. When you were crying, after it was all over, I was deaf to your coughing, the way your hands shook with inner cold. But caught in my own happiness, I saw nothing of your pains then.

We won the war. That much I was told when I was in the hospital, recovering from my bullet wound. You were sitting by my bed, bubbling with excitement, saying it was all over, all of the fighting. We were no longer soldiers but once more teenagers, fucked up teenagers, but normal all the same. We would not have to save the world any longer. No, in fact, we could destroy our Gundams now, since peace was assured for a while yet. I think that both of us burst into tears at that point...and...well, much to the nurse's charged with watching over me, distress, once again we found ourselves locked in passion. Sure, we were in a hospital, and I had just woken up...but that ended as the nurse entered the room, gasped and almost fainted, then turned away, telling us to stop.

She said nothing to me, but instead to you, and that phrase has been emblazoned upon my mind ever since.

"Mr. Maxwell, please stop. You are in no condition to be out of bed even. Mr. Yuy could have come to you. Now you need to get back; it will only make your condition worse."

My whole world came to a skidding halt at that line. What condition did you have? You looked healthy last battle, sounded in all good Shinigami form, like before. There had been no change. Though I must admit you looked thinner, wan, but your spirit held on.

You left then, even though I pleaded to hear what was wrong, and within a matter of minutes the hospital room was empty again.

Now, I place my head in my hands. The tape has stopped, and I flip it over to the other side. It beings with an instrumental, an orchestra with biting rhythms that make me shiver, not out of cold, but out of the despair in those melodic and uplifting sounds. The memories I was coming upon I had unwrapped before, but they tore me apart. It was a damp side of my brain, where I feared to go simply because I knew I would break down. But this Christmas would be different. I could not let them sit alone as they were. Three years had passed and it was time to look into that dark place, find what I had buried so long ago.

You had been sick for quite a while, you said to me when I finally got to the room. Actually, a few weeks, if not months, slowly deteriorating, but it had been just now that it had gone downhill. You had pushed yourself too far. The doctors did not know what was wrong with you, and never had. You never told me about this so that I would not worry over it, would not fear for you. You assured me Shinigami would not succumb to illness, while coughs shook your frail form. A grin played across your face, but even that appeared stretched, forced. You were fading, I could tell. So I talked to you. For hours, we spoke of whatever came to mind, exchanging stories, laughing, talking about the road ahead. Always we mentioned you getting out of this hospital, moving on, and living with this illness so we could grow old by each other's side. It was absurd to think that this was your...

...deathbed. The orchestra fades to a whisper now, and a single violin sings a mournful solo. A viola joins it, the deep tones mixing as the two instruments swell, a contrast to the constant slowing of your heart in my dreams.

You did not live to see New Years. No one is sure why, but the specifics for once hold no importance to me. All that matters is your absence, that you no longer grace my life. There is no more laughter, no more grins, witty jokes, cynical remarks, no more tears from your violet eyes. There is a void in my hear, part of me that was buried away on that cold January day when they laid you to rest in the ground. I stood by the grave, silent, through the entire ceremony, and when all the mourners left, I collapsed on the ground beside you and cried. I had wished for death on that day and hoped that freezing on your grave would be enough to do me in.

I have endured though. Three years of life without you. Three years I walked this earth without a purpose or an aim. I was a mindless shell for my memories, for all of that. And every Christmas came and went without another smile, or even a word, nothing but tapes, the music my only comfort. But now the tape plays a piano song. It begins with a lone violin, then the piano joins in, then the vocals, a wailing voice, cutting through the heavy chords. I listen to the vocals, the words slicing through my soul. Tears gather at my eyes, and I huddle into a ball on the couch, sobbing for all I have lost, all that have not cried about in years. I cry for you, my love, cry for the empty place in my heart, cry for the empty life I live. I am nothing without you, a tired soldier stuck in a world he does not understand, without any friends to hold him steady. I am a shell. You gave me a soul, filled me with the emotions. I am not a perfect soldier with you, but Heero, a human being.

Through the piano solo, I cry until the vocals join again. I lift my head and realize what I am lacking suddenly, in one flash. I turn my head to the back of the room, where my bed stands, and know what it was I miss so much. As if all the answers are suddenly clear, I rise. The music fades and the tapes shuts off. I make my way towards the bed, where I had been earlier today. The fruits of my labor from before dangle from the ceiling. I have been waiting, calculating, wondering when it will all peak like this. I was waiting for an answer to my pleas, my cries. You gave me one word of an answer, and now I respond. I have been here too long.

I stand upon the bed and stare at the noose in front of me. How beautiful it is, reflected in the light glaring off snow collected in the alleyways. I can see the people now, bubbling with holiday cheer. Across the way, in a department store, music float through, a cheery rendition of Christmas tunes. I laugh and shake my head. "I'll be home for Christmas," the song says. And I will. I have not been home for the holidays in so long. This foreign world was uninviting to me though. You wait with open arms, Shinigami ready to lead me away. I look through the noose and see your face, smiling upon me. I am coming, Shinigami. Hold me in your arms, sweet death. I am ready to return. I whisper one last prayer to you, in hopes that this you would answer, as you answered all other of my cries.

"Misui no tsubomi sakaseyou...Shinigami..."

Now I'm coming home.

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Well, I hope that brought some holiday cheer to your life! Nothing's better at cheering you up then knowing that Duo died and having Heero kill himself afterwards! What could be happier?

What would make me happy now, though, is to get some reviews from you people! Comments are so very much treasured and loved!

Oh yeah, and that last line in Japanese actually comes from a Dir en Grey song, called "The Final". Translates into: "I'll make the bud of a suicide attempt blossom". And I'm sorry if it's the wrong translation, but that's what the website said from where I got it, so!

Please review!


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